HOW stands the glass around?
For shame ye take no care, my boys;
How stands the glass around?
Let mirth and wine abound.
The trumpets sound;
The colors they are flying, boys.
To fight, kill or wound,
May we still be found
Content with our hard fare, my boys,
On the cold ground.

'Tis but in vain
–
I mean not to upbraid you, boys
–
'Tis but in vain
For soldiers to complain:
Should next campaign
Send us to Him who made us, boys,
We're free from pain!
But if we remain,
A bottle and a kind landlady
Cure all again.